


living in a glass house

by voodoochild



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (a vague disclaimer is nobody's friend), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Discussion of mpreg, F/M, Female Alpha, Femdom, Fertility Issues, First Time Blow Jobs, Id Fic, Male Omega, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No actual mpreg, POV Female Character, Period-Typical Racism, Pregnancy Kink, Rimming, also contains May/Tommy and Grace/Tommy but not main pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Docket number 1498, the case of Mrs. Grace Burgess Walker (A) against Mrs. Elizabeth Shelby Gray (A) and Ms. May Fitz-Carleton (A). The omega in question - Thomas Shelby. Plaintiff alleges illegal impregnation and forced adultery. Defendants allege provocation of heat, nonconsensual bonding, and property damage. [Written for the Iddy Iddy Bang Bang ficathon, takes place in an Alpha/Beta/Omega universe.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	living in a glass house

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know what the Omegaverse is, [here is a primer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644/chapters/665489). I've played around with it, so suffice it to say: six genders (Alpha, Beta, and Omega of each sex), with A, b, and o females able to bear children, as well as omega males. Alphas go into rut, omegas go into heat. Alpha men knot their omega, alpha women trap their omega. Omega men have both a penis and a vagina, omega women only have a vagina. 
> 
> Inspiration from [Born from the Earth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1013991/chapters/2084413), a very brilliant A/B/O Marvel story, as well as many, many discussions with **thatyourefuse** and **Feather** over what a strongly matriarchal omegaverse could look like.
> 
> Title from Dessa's "Warsaw", because Polly + Dessa = perfection.

The posh girl is quite posh, purse still on her linen-suited lap, contract on the table. 

It's not as if Polly can't see what Thomas sees in her - on the contrary, she quite does. May Fitz-Carleton is absolutely Thomas's type; beautiful, bit of an untouchable bearing to her, startlingly sweet when she does smile, and most importantly, a lady who tolerates no fools. He's certainly gone for worse alphas over the years, and Polly supposes May’s upbringing prevents her from doing anything sneaky or untoward to him the way the Irish bitch did. 

All that and up to her arse in money. Polly could spit; doesn’t, though, and pours her a gin and tonic, squeezes a lemon into it and enjoys the startled look Mrs. Fitz-Carleton gives her. "This is my home, madam. I don't hold to omega servitude."

There's a small, careful smile on May's face as she takes a sip of the drink. "I don't think I expected it of you, Mrs. Gray, but people do talk."

"Polly, if you please. We're about to become quite familiar with each other."

"You must admit, Mrs. Gray, this is quite unorthodox-" May starts.

Polly forces herself to smile in return, uncross her arms and sit properly. "Thomas has no living alpha with biological rights over him, so it falls to me. Surely you've come across that, Mrs. Fitz-Carleton."

"Oh, of course," May says. Quite inscrutably. "One encounters all sorts of arrangements. But, if you'll forgive me, one also doesn't spring at a very good offer without investigating the particulars."

"So my offer's good, is it?" Polly says as one of the maids brings 'round the tea that May had insisted upon, in addition to the alcohol. "I wasn't sure. Your response was so brief."

And May gives her a small, considered smile. "You know it is. The wording, I found particularly fascinating. You don't hedge your bets, Mrs. Gray, in fact, you don't risk much at all."

"Betting's a mug's game." Polly tries to keep her voice low and even, eyes flicking up and down in a very deliberate, staged threat-assessment. May does bristle in return, but it isn't the edgy body language of a hair-trigger alpha. Polly would know. "I'm sure you know that yourself."

"Quite." May doesn't return the evaluating look. Apparently she's heard one doesn't get what one wants by challenging Polly Gray. Not directly, at least. "Why now, then?"

Polly weighs her options. So, May Fitz-Carleton isn't one to bristle. Polly wonders just what kind of alpha she is. Probably one of the calm, implacable types, complete counter to everything Polly's ever known. Well, she supposes when you're a rich girl, you don't need to dominance-fight very often - though it won't hurt to find out.

"How many alphas went after your late husband before you married him?"

Tilt of her head. "Four."

"And how did you fend them off?"

There are a remarkable number of teeth in May's smile, sharp and sudden, for the sort of girl May looks like. "With relish, I assure you.” She sets her cup down with a tiny ring of china. "Two I fought. One I reminded of certain, mmm, shall we say _facts_ of her situation. And the fourth," more teeth, "found herself abruptly hounded through the courts on an entirely unrelated charge of alienation of affection. I do fight to win, when it’s required."

"Good. I fight to win, as well. When the kids' mother died, I wasn't going to allow my useless sack of shite brother to either raise them or auction the boys off to the highest bidder. The courts, as you almost certainly know, will allow omega children to reside with an alpha relation, but there's that hellacious little catch when they come of age." Her voice is almost light, airy, but the anger is always there. "I've had to answer a contest for every one of those boys. I've fought for Thomas every year for almost eighteen years."

May is silent a moment, tips her cup in acknowledgement. "So I'll repeat, Mrs. Gray - why now?"

And Jesus, but she doesn't want to answer that - not now, not at all, but there's no way around it. You don't lie to a woman half your age with May's kind of money. "Because now's when one little bitch decided she didn't want a fair fight."

May's mouth quirks sharp, startled, and that's all to the good, and letting it burn slow. "I see. So I'm good enough for your blue-eyed boy now, am I? Just barely? Now he's shopworn goods and you don't fancy the alternative? I could take this as an insult, Mrs. Gray."

"But you're not," and her fingers are going white on the handle of her own teacup, but she makes herself smile. "You won't. Because if you came down here after my Thomas, madam, you're ready for all the insults in the world, and you don't give a shit."

"You like that," May says, quietly. "That I did it properly. Came down here, contracts in hand, ready to speak to you alpha-to-alpha. Whatever did that last little girl do to you?"

Polly could spit, thinking of Grace, but she holds her tongue, sips at her tea. "The last one is a social-climbing little hellion from Belfast who thinks it her right to go 'round playing my family off each other. Let her own guardian think he was going to keep her, then worked it so she provoked heat in him and Thomas. Nearly killed them both. When I put a stop to it, she up and married a banker, new American money, and got a child off Tommy while he was too heat-stupid to put up a fight."

Silence. Polly forces herself to curl her nails into the upholstery of the chair and not anything else, and keep eye contact with May. The woman puts her teacup down and reaches for her gin, tilting the glass in invitation, and Polly drains her whiskey in a single sip. 

"So yes, me and my shopworn goods would like the straightforwardness of you and your money, Mrs. Fitz-Carleton. Seeing as we've scraped up enough of our own to be worthy of it. Now you know why I'm here - what's your angle?" 

"Because, I suspect quite unlike that Irish girl, I don't assume I'll ever own him without a fight.” 

Polly returns the smile, a bit more honest than she had before. "Good start. Keep going, Mrs. Fitz-Carleton - what's my Thomas going to give you that your money can't buy from more acceptable stock?" 

"Oh, the usual sorts of things." One of those perfect Mona Lisa looks, Polly wants to wipe it from her face, but she keeps her hands on her empty whiskey glass. "Challenge. Excitement. One day different from the next. Ideally a few children with some backbone to them, but I shan't aim too high at first." 

"Pull the other one, madam. Go on, you can tell me what you're really after - you know what line of work we're in, after all." 

A very calculated bite of her lip, sip of her tea. "In all honesty, then; I want him to dirty me up a little, then polish him until he shines and walk him into Buckingham Palace. I want everyone to know that I have him and all of your enterprises of varying legality." 

Searing-hot rush of anger, for that - every nerve and instinct in her screaming for a fight, and no doubt at all who'd win it. She hasn't survived all these years with her hair-trigger without being capable of following through. The fucking nerve of it, though; Polly's been someone's alpha bit of rough, she knows how it goes, but she's tried to keep her boys from it. 

"Well," Polly finally says, desperately composed, all her godforsaken Brum-Romany drawl in it; "that is why you're here. Because you understand me, madam, I'm bringing you into this to send the little bitch off yelping without blood drawn. But don't you start thinking I'd need you if she weren't carrying his child. I'd litter the fucking streets with her without a second thought, I hate her that much." 

"I have no doubt," May says quietly. Steel underneath, and it's enough to both scrape Polly's hackles and soothe her at the same time. "So shall we agree, Ms. _Shelby_ , that we will trust each other to have Thomas's best interests at heart?" 

And as much as it lights her up to be addressed as a Shelby - fucking marriage conventions, she'd go back if it weren't a bitch and a half to contest, and there are some circles it's nice to have the Gray name to trade on - she grits her teeth a little as she offers her hand. "Preliminary agreement reached, Mrs. Fitz-Carleton." 

"Preliminary agreement reached," May echoes sweetly; spits into her own palm, surprisingly tidy, and Polly lets her see the grudging little lift of her eyebrows as she takes her hand. "Well, honestly, Polly, I'm not entirely ignorant. I train horses, you know, not Pekinese dogs." 

"Congratulations," Polly says, can't keep the edge out of it, and May laughs. "You'd best understand, I don't expect you to like me any better than I like you- " 

"But I do like you," May says, honest as far as Polly can tell, and isn't that something? "A great deal. I like most people who haven't given me reason not to." 

Polly's mouth twists as she rings for the maid again. "A few weeks around the likes of us will train that right out of you." 

May laughs, a real one, very throaty and genuine, and Polly's thankful for this small glimpse of the woman behind the frosty mask. She doesn't like social niceties, because alpha social niceties are there to keep the parties involved from ripping each other's throats out. Polly would rather skip to the throat-ripping, a lot of the time. 

It's settled, then: May Fitz-Carleton and Polly Shelby Gray against Grace Burgess Walker and the undeniable proof of a child. 

God help them. 

*******

“You did _what_?” 

Lord, she knew it would be a tough sell, but she’d expected the fight from Thomas, not Arthur. 

“Shut up, Arthur, let her finish,” Tommy says, sitting by her feet, hand wound around her calf in a very indicative little pose - he’s nervous, but not angry. “May said yes?” 

Polly nods at the contract on the table. “Signed the preliminary agreement then and there. Full disclosure, mind you, Thomas.” He looks up, startled, and she strokes his hair soothingly. “Yes, that means Grace-” and she doesn’t spit the name, for once, “It means she knows everything, and she’s accepted. Her lawyers will draft the secondary agreement, the formal proposal and all that muck, and we’ll look it over.” 

“Why now?” Arthur asks, pacing the drawing room. He picks up one of her knick-knacks, a little snow globe with a wishing well that Michael gave her, and tosses it hand to hand. “Polly, why now? Just because the Irish bitch-” 

Tommy bares his teeth. “Fuck off, Arthur. Like you’ve never been rolled by an alpha.” 

“A hooker, not a posh bitch from Belfast-” 

“What, and it’s so much better that you got trapped by a Green Lanes whore who charges a shilling a fuck? Not to mention fucking _Amiens_ -” 

If Polly weren’t sitting there, she thinks Arthur might have tried to throw the globe at Tommy. He puts it down too-hard, slams his hand against the wall. “You shut your mouth about Amiens!” 

She doesn’t ask about the war, not ever. Not any of them, because there are things that happen to an omega who slips through the enlistment restrictions, never mind three of them from Birmingham who are promoted over alphas from Islington or Mayfair. Tommy’s told her one or two things, fucked-out after a heat, when he can’t control his tongue, that make her want to kill every last French alpha she finds. 

“Boys,” she warns, and Arthur sits down in a chair, Thomas curling his other arm around her leg. “What do you care?” she asks Arthur, raising her eyebrow pointedly. “I’m not signing custody papers for _you_. Don’t really expect to, unless you continue running your mouth out of turn, and don’t think I don’t know precisely why you’ve begged me for a dozen years to keep you.” 

Silence - stunned, terrified silence from Arthur and a shocked sort of awe from Tommy. They don’t speak of Arthur’s _preferences_ , of how he can’t get it up for alphas, how he prefers beta men or women or other omegas. Of how his brothers dragged him out of more omega brothels than they could count, or how her godforsaken brother had once locked Arthur in the cellar with two alphas to “cure” him. 

“Polly-” Arthur begs, and she holds up a hand. 

“We’ll talk about it later, Arthur. Yeah?” 

He doesn’t say anything as he walks out, and Tommy releases a breath she hadn’t realized he was holding. He slumps against her, buries his face in her knee, and god help her, she’s missed him. It’s been so long since Black Star Day and he's tried his best to be both a sterling example of an omega and a businessman. Trying, she thinks, to soften the blow of what Grace had done, the power she’d taken away from them. 

“You shouldn’t have said that,” he whispers. Kisses her knee, and her fingers tighten in his hair in warning. They won’t be able to touch once he’s in May’s custody. “But he’s not wrong, Pol. Why?” 

“You know why, baby. That woman’s going to be the ruin of us, and I can’t protect you like May can.” 

He whines soft in his throat, nose pressing behind her knee to where her scent gathers. If she didn’t have him by the hair, he’d be nuzzling up to her thigh, her cunt, and no matter how badly she wants it, they have to follow the rules now. 

“Grace could-" 

Oh, the heat-stupid little boy. She trusts his judgment except when it comes to that Irish bitch. If Polly could figure out what it is about that girl that overrides all of Thomas’s good sense and self-control and bottle it, she’d be the richest alpha in the world. And if she’s honest with herself, she’d have Thomas too, and the devil take the orientation laws that say no alpha of either gender can fully claim their own relation in a custody arrangement. 

She shakes her head, tugs his hair to tip his face up to her. “She’s proved she cared more about fucking us over than about you, sweetheart. She’s got a pairbond and now she’s got her damned child, too. And I’m sorry we didn’t win the initial claim of alienation, but May can help us with that. She’ll keep you safe, and she and her lawyers will apply for paternal rights.” 

He exhales slow, and she can see him gathering his thoughts, his control. Sits up calmly, though he keeps his hands curled around her knee. “And this is what you want?” 

“I want you safe. I want to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

She remembers Black Star Day, knows he does too. 

*******

_He’d done all the things you're not supposed to do when you're an unbonded omega in heat._

_Locked the door to his room, stuffed wax into the keyhole and an old blanket against the bottom, keeping the pheremones inside. Piled on clothing, three layers of shorts that he'll soak through in ten minutes if she knows omega biology. They say omegas should be bare, easy-access, and she knows he hates it - he'll do all the washing in the world if it means feeling less vulnerable. He had stocked up on distractions, too; whiskey he'll throw up, cigarettes he'll burn through in hours, opium his hands will be shaking too badly to prepare._

_None of it will mean anything, because when it's hour number four of sweating and shaking, the room reeking of unbonded omega pheremone and slick, she can't take it anymore. Unlocks the door from the outside, smelling her own alpha scent spike. He gasps like the first breath of air after being held underwater, shivering and fucking dripping._

_She coughs at the thick cloud of pheremone, picking her way across the scattered clothing and the remnants of the dresser he dismantled in hour two. "Idiot boy," she says, not unfondly, coming to kneel by the edge of his bed. "Thomas, what did you think you were doing?"_

_"Let me be," he says, curling into the blankets. "I can ride it out."_

_"Can you?"_

_"I did it in bloody France, didn't I?"_

_She knows a little about those heats. Curled up in a quarantine tent, dozens of alphas around, Arthur and John standing guard outside. Three straight days of his prick standing at attention for the slightest breeze, his shorts tacky with slick, too weak to move. He’d bloody hated it, and still does, that feeling of helplessness, but she can’t bear to think of him doing it now, at home. Not when there’s other options._

_Christ, she could kill that barmaid. Copper. Whatever she was. Provoking a heat, half-arse bonding him, leaving him - unspeakable, and Polly will make her answer for it later, but now, now there’s the consequences._

_Polly twists her fingers in the folds of her skirt, keeps herself from reaching out. Her voice comes out soft, coaxing. "You're home now, sweetheart. You don't have to bear this alone."_

_"What are you going to do?" he asks, biting down on his lip as the next wave starts. "Ring up one of those prozzies who do heats? Find a nice alpha who'll make sure I don't burn to death and pretend to be my mate? I'll be fine, I just need -"_

_He’s squirming toward the edge of the bed, his hand outstretched and his body yearning for contact, and she curls her nails into her skirt. Imagines her hands holding him, sharp nails in his skin; she doesn't indulge herself often, but every few months or so, the rut will catch her good, and she'll come home after a couple days with blood under her nails and a loose-hipped slink. It’ll be good, but it won’t be that romanticized blur of sex and pairbond the dime novels tell you about._

_She can’t have him. It’s not possible, never mind that her pheremones are spiking and she can’t stop thinking of how pretty he’d look with her bruises all over him, scratches down his back and a set of teeth marks in his thigh._

_"You smell criminal," she says, soft growl in it. "The room reeks of you, pretty boy, and if I weren't your blood relation, I'd have you on your knees, spread open for my mouth."_

_"Do it," he breathes, and while his voice is deep with need, his eyes are clear._

_She shivers, alpha scent spiking, but she takes a breath, fixes him with a glare. "You know it won't get better, it'll get worse and worse - Arthur told me you near died in France before it passed. How could you think to do that again?"_

_He rolls to face her - it won't do any good to hide his stiff prick, his drenched clothes, and anyway, they say heat-pain is more bearable for omegas on their side - looks at the wall before he answers her._

_"You don't know what it's like, Pol. It's not going to kill you if you ignore a rut. Hell, you do it every other month, thinking we can't smell it on you. I can. Arthur can. John, sometimes. But I can't even put it off. Do you know what it's like to be surrounded by dozens of alphas on a battlefield and just - Christ, it's horrible. If I could have this lifted from me, not be an omega anymore, I'd do it in a heartbeat. You don't know what it's like to have no choice."_

_"You'll find you're wrong about that," she says flatly, reaches out to smooth his hair back. His flushed skin is so hot against her fingers, and he presses against them like a cat. She can’t breathe for what she’s about to tell him. "You have a choice now. You can let me help you, if that's all right. Or you can lie here alone and hope it doesn't kill you, wait until I find one of the pros."_

_He whimpers, sweet and needy, says "need you, please, just you, anything you want" and Polly runs her fingers through his hair, hushing him._

_"Listen to me, Thomas. You know I'm not in rut, I won't be able to trap you. It'll be good - as good as I can make it - but there will be things I can't give you. Do you understand?"_

_He closes his eyes, tips his head back to bare his throat to her. "Doesn't matter. I want you. I've wanted you since I was fourteen, and it's impossible, and I don't care. Please, anything, just make it stop hurting."_

_And she does, she kisses so gently at the pulse in his throat, lays her hands over his wrists with just the the threat of pressing down enough to make him moan. She expects this to be calm, methodical for her because she's not in rut and he's not a viable mate. But as soon as she flicks her tongue against his throat, his scent spikes sharply, and her skin heats against his, drawing his warmth._

_"*Oh*," she breathes, her fingers wrapping around his wrists and nosing at his throat. "Oh, sweetheart, how are you doing that? I could lick you up everywhere, you taste so sweet. Could bite you, god, put my mark on you."_

_It's impossible, neither of them should feel the bonding urge. He shouldn't be shaking at the thought of her teeth in his throat, and she shouldn't be staring at him like she wants to devour him._

_"Do it. You feel like a fucking dream, Pol, you can do anything you like to me. I'll take it, I want it all. Will you do it for me?"_

_She moans against his throat, licking at the stretches where scent gathers, nipping carefully just over his pulse. "I'll take care of you, lovely boy. I will, you're going to be so good for me. Start by getting me out of these clothes, hmm?"_

_His hands shake, not just tremble but full on shake, he can barely keep from ripping her blouse or the buttons to her skirt, but the knowledge that she's likely to take her belt to him if he tears anything makes him at least try. She laughs, though, and when he pulls her to the bed and rips straight through her slip, she purrs like a girl in her first rut. Her skin's warming like it, too, and she writhes, arches as he presses his mouth to her belly, inhales deeply._

_"Christ, Polly, the way you smell. How can you smell like a pairbond?"_

_She laces her hands in his hair, pulls sharp and sweet, makes him groan with the dominance of it. "I don't care right now, and neither should you. All you need to do for me is be a good boy. You smell like you've fucking bathed in pheremone, you're driving me mad. I'm going to strip you off and lick all that stickiness off you, all right?"_

_"God, yes. Yes, yes, yes, *please*," he moans, raising his arms to slip out of his shirt. Her fingers skate over his flushed skin, tracing collarbone and shoulders and chest and stomach, greedily mapping out all of the places that make him shiver and moan. She can see the slick trickling out of him, watches him shift his hips restlessly. "Touch me, it feels so good when you touch me. I'll go mad when you get your mouth on me."_

_"I know, baby, I know. Breathe."_

_She's practically radiating pleased-alpha at him, undoing the flies to his trousers and cooing at him. She never expected to use any pet names - he hates being cosseted and petted, thought of as just another omega - but when she does, he just curls up in her arms and whimpers._

_She eases his trousers down, makes a broken-off sound when she sees the layers of undergarments he'd put on, and strokes his hair soothingly. "All right, let's get you out of those. You're drenched and there's nothing to be done for it." He shoves the sodden fabric down, and as soon as he gets them off, she urges him to his back, wants to see him spread out. He's trembling, dripping from his cock and arse both, and her hand goes to her mouth. She makes a sound that's half-sob, eyes going dark as she looks at him. "My gorgeous boy, look at you. You're perfect for me, tuck your leg up just here, oh yes, lovely boy."_

_She can feel her mouth start watering, and he’s young, he won’t have the taboo too deeply ingrained. She couldn’t stand not doing this for him, even though she’s aware of her perversion. Sucking the prick of her omega blood-nephew, but she doesn’t care what that makes her, strokes over his chest and thighs. He thrusts and arches off the bed, and she purrs under her breath as she leans down to nuzzle against his belly._

_He almost stops breathing once he realizes her intent. Eyes wide and flushed skin and his fingers knotted in the sheets, gasping her name. “Polly, *please*, it's wrong, it's phallocentric and won't do anything for you-” and he tries to push her away, but she's adamant._

_She digs her nails into his thighs and growls "are you telling me what I can and can't do to my boy?"_

_"No, no, I wouldn't-"_

_"Then don't, Thomas. Lie back and let me see to you."_

_She licks him in long, hungry motions, drags her tongue up his cock and dips the point of it into the slit at the head of his cock. It has him writhing, crying out for her, wanting more, and she sucks him for a bit, humming as she takes him to the back of her throat. And he goes mad for it, cocksucking is for betas, for tarts, for the deepest back-room perversions - he’s likely never even seen an alpha do it._

_He tastes lovely, deep sweetness and musk of heat, and she grips his wrists, forces him to force her mouth around his prick. He cries out in a sob, her name and “please”, and she groans, pulls off a bit to stroke him, gentle him._

_“Hush, baby - don’t you like how it feels to fuck my mouth?” He nods, face flushed crimson and tears gathering in his eyes, wants to be so fucking good for her she can’t stand it. Tightens her fist around him and leans up to kiss him, growl against his mouth. “Taste how sweet you are for me-” and he licks himself off her mouth, whimpers for it. “I want it, Thomas, I want you to take your pleasure. Having you like this makes me so wet, so ready for you. Do it, that’s an order.”_

_And his hands are shaking in her hair, but as she settles back down on her belly, kissing at the base of his cock, he tightens his grip and fucks into her mouth with a moan. She’s never wanted so much to be taken like this, especially by an omega - she usually has to go to betas or other alphas to get it rough._

_He’s groaning, crying, can't speak, and he howls as he closes his hands in her hair, fucks desperately into her mouth. The delicious stretch of it makes her very skin hum, and it’s only a few breaths before he comes, Polly swallowing satisfied around him. She pulls off, grinning like the devil, kisses and laps up the bit that spills out of the corner of her mouth onto his belly._

_"There you are, sweetheart, breathe. Is that better? Take the edge off a bit?"_

_Beyond words, he pulls her to him, curls himself around her._

*******

The meeting with Grace - and her new omega husband, Peter Walker - is a dozen different kinds of fraught. 

Grace is all in white, angelic and harmless-looking, dress cut perfectly to show off her rounding belly, her husband docile and obedient on his knees beside her. Polly’s nose wrinkles as she catches his scent - inoffensive and mild, like spring grass and fresh milk - and she turns her nose to the collar of her coat. Tommy’s scent is there from this morning, from where he’d nosed along the base of her throat, and it’s sharp and comforting, like good whiskey. 

Tommy himself is seated between Polly and May (imperious in ermine fur and navy blue lace), not kneeling. They have no need to put on the display, as anyone with eyes will be able to see how mindful he is of both his current legal-alpha and his prospective alpha wife. He’s laced his hands together, and only Polly can see how white-knuckled he’s gone, three alpha scents he loves in the same room. 

It’s methodical and boring and full of strained niceties between the three alphas. The actual testimony starts with May presenting her case to the magistrate, straightforward and calm. 

She had met Tommy at a horse race, where he’d been conducting business. She’d been impressed by his financial acumen, mistaking him for another alpha, but finding out he’d been an omega impressed her more. They had bonded over the horses, and he’d been nothing but honest with her about his orientation. She’d sought the match before she’d ever heard of Grace Burgess Walker, and now that she has, she has no wish to dissolve the initial contract. 

During May’s testimony, Polly watches Grace. She’s wincing every two minutes - that’ll be the swollen ankles and the backache - and she looks as if she’s going to swoon dead away. Polly can’t quite blame her for that one: she’d once fainted in the middle of the market, buying bread, while she was pregnant with Michael. But it makes her wonder if the magistrate will side with Grace, looking so fragile and fertile, picture of alpha motherhood. 

“Mrs. Gray, your testimony?” the magistrate - Judge Rutherford - asks. 

She stalks to the lectern, spikiest heels and best black dress her armor for this battle. Curls cascading down her shoulders. Jet black beads around her neck. Play the role, she reminds herself, be the sexless queen bee protecting her young. 

Grace’s barrister turns to her, bored and beta-efficient. “Name?” 

“Elizabeth Shelby Gray.” 

“Claim upon the contested omega?” 

“Blood. Thomas is my brother’s son, and under my care.” 

“Length of claim?” 

She hesitates, only a moment because it’s a matter of public record, but Grace will likely use it against her. “Eight years. Seven continuously, one starting last September." 

“Why the interruption?” 

“Your file doesn’t tell you?” she snaps, and May’s mouth tightens. Warning her. Polly takes a breath and continues. “Thomas was a non-commissioned officer in His Majesty’s Corps of Engineeers. Staff Sargeant, stationed on the Western Front in the Great War.” 

The magistrate raises an eyebrow. “He joined the army?” 

“He enlisted in October of 1914 after being turned down on orientation grounds. He was, at _minimum_ , the five hundredth omega to attempt enlistment by masquerading as a beta. Thomas succeeded.” 

She can’t keep the pride out of her voice - privately, she could have wrung his neck, but it stood that Thomas Shelby commanded entire battalions after being only the second omega to succeed in tricking the enlistment officers. Unfortunately, it’s not helping now, the barrister is looking down his nose in disdain and the magistrate is looking similarly perturbed. 

“You took custody after the war?” 

“Yes. Custody reverted to me.” 

“No suits accepted prior to Mrs. Fitz-Carleton’s?” the judge says, finally showing some interest. “Well now, Mrs. Gray - why is that?” 

And if she says _because I hate that Irish cunt so much I’ll give him to a posh widow rather than see him with her_ , she’ll lose this case, so she takes a long breath, and swallows her anger. Looks up with perfect inoffensive-alpha bearing and folds her hands on her lap. 

“Mrs. Fitz-Carleton has my Thomas’s best interests in heart. She has been nothing but honest in our negotiations. I was completely unaware of Miss Burgess-” 

“Don’t *lie*,” Grace finally says, soft as a feather, but like a knife between Polly’s ribs. 

Polly raises a theatrical eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You knew the night it happened. You fucking chased me to the Garrison and threatened to kill me!” 

“Would I not have been within my rights?” Polly asks the magistrate. “Sir, you must understand - all I knew was that an alpha girl masquerading as a beta barmaid had trapped my omega, and considering he was incapable of speech, no idea as to whether it was consensual or not.” 

“And if it were?” Grace inquires sweetly, resting a hand on her belly. “Because that is my testimony; that Thomas is already bonded to me of his own free will, with a child as proof.” 

May adjusts her purse, giving her the opportunity to stroke Tommy’s hand, and Polly hides her smile. May can play *dirty* when she wants to, it seems. “And we contest that since you are already married, Mrs. Walker, and were when you trapped Thomas, your claim is null and void, and Mrs. Gray and I are owed property damage.” 

The magistrate turns to Grace. “What is the date of your marriage to Peter Walker?” 

“August 8th, 1920. It was two months after the heat date in question.” At the magistrate’s raised eyebrow, she pulls her fur closer around her and rests her hand on the back of her husband’s neck. “We fell in love and bonded so quickly, you see.” 

The barrister motions Grace to the lectern, and Polly skirts wide ‘round her while returning to her seat. She feels so on-edge, wanting to challenge Grace, fight her with fists or dueling pistols, rake into that pretty face with her nails. Finish what she started that night, and only stopped because of the pregnancy laws - any person who had the possibility of a child, particularly an alpha child, was sacrosanct. She can’t so much as sneeze in Grace’s direction, now. 

As Polly takes her seat, Thomas nudges her foot with his. Outwardly, he doesn’t move, looks serious and alert as he listens to Grace’s testimony, but he seeks her touch under the table. Steeling himself for his own testimony, for when he’ll have to stand in front of the room and admit to impregnating an alpha during heat with full knowledge she was married. For when he’ll be judged as a danger to himself, and his choices taken away from him.

And they are. 

Parental rights for Thomas Shelby (o) are denied, and he is ordered to pay monthly alimony in the amount of one hundred pounds. Custody of Thomas Shelby is remanded to his current alpha, Polly Gray, with the preliminary agreement of custody to May Fitz-Carleton revoked. For illegal impregnation, he’s to serve six months in jail, and upon release, to have no further contact with Grace Burgess Walker or his child. 

Polly damns herself a hundred times over for being relieved, at that last. She lost her own children, she knows how it tears your soul apart, but she thinks it might be worth it for Thomas to be free of the trouble Grace brings.

*******

He's been silent since they got home, and it worries her. She waits until they're in her bedroom, door safely locked and pheremone-dispelling candles lit, and then she confronts it. Unfortunately, that leads to him throwing a decanter of whiskey at the wall, glass shattering and alcohol staining the wallpaper. 

"Talk to me. What’s gotten into you-?” 

“I’m going to fucking jail, lost my child, and I can’t be furious?” he growls, shoulders and back shaking under his waistcoat. 

“No one’s said that.” 

“You’re _pleased_.” She can’t deny it; the jail time is unfortunate (and she's not thinking of what they'll do to an omega jailed for impregnation, she's _not_ ), the humiliation not ideal, but the temptation of Grace has been taken away. “You wouldn’t care what happened to me or my child-” his voice cracks on the word, and it takes everything in her to stay where she is, “-if it kept me away from Grace. You and your fucking vendetta.” 

“She provoked heat, Thomas. It’d be a crime if you hadn’t gone back to her.” 

“It’s my fault now?” 

“You’re sure as fuck not helping!” Her nails are curling into her palms, half-moons on the pale skin, and she thinks she’s going to start seeing red for how stupid he’s being. “Thinking with your prick instead of your head, Jesus Christ, I don’t know why I even bothered trying to stop you.”

“Because you wanted me then like you want me now, and it’s our fucking curse that I want you just as much.” 

She can’t breathe - they’ve never spoken the words. Not in fifteen years, not for any reason. And he’s right, that’s the bitch of it; she’s jealous and covetous and possessive, all those things they try to train out of alphas of either gender. She should be better than this, be pleased at his desire for any eligible alpha, including Grace. 

She’s not. 

She rests a hand on the back of his head, and he jerks away, snarling. Her breath catches, and while she wants to, she doesn’t touch him again. 

“Go the fuck away, Pol.” 

He’s never asked her that before, not once, and so she goes. Leaves him to his anger and despair, and goes to satisfy some unfinished business: Grace Burgess Walker. 

She walks to the Grand, where Grace has been staying, and notifies the clerk at the front desk that she’d like to call upon Mrs. Walker. Apparently they’ve been warned, because she gets a very frosty reaction until finally Peter Walker emerges from the lift. 

“Expecting me?” Polly asks, mostly to make Walker flush behind his ears. 

“She said you may be dropping by to express your displeasure. Please don’t cause a scene, Mrs. Gray. I’m asking for the sake of Grace’s and the baby’s health.” 

Polly looks up at him, like she’s been doing to people all her life, and huffs in irritation. As if she’d attack another alpha, a pregnant alpha no less, as if she’d give the bitch the satisfaction of another loss of control. 

“You needn’t worry, Peter. I’d simply like to speak with Grace. You may stay in the room, you can keep yourself between us - hell, you can ring up bloody Scotland Yard if you like.” 

He clearly has reservations, but holds his tongue. Follows her into the lift and stays silent, which suits her. Model omega behavior, and she’s so used to Tommy’s blatant flouting of the rules that she’s nearly startled. Peter is unobtrusive, obedient, protective of his mate, everything society wants from an omega. Thomas . . . is going to suffer in prison, and she can’t believe she hasn’t realized it until now. 

He hadn’t been angry, at the house. He’d been terrified. 

“Tell me, Peter,” she asks, turning to him, “how will you feel when the child is born?” 

Peter’s expression changes only minutely, quite like his alpha, and he simply takes a breath before responding. “Ecstatic, I’d imagine. How did your husband feel when you bore his children?” 

“My husband knew my children were of his get,” she says pointedly. 

“He was also a beta, wasn’t he?” 

Polly smiles in spite of herself. “Yes. Though you’d have mistaken him for an alpha, the pigheaded fool. Never thought anyone knew better than himself.” 

“Omegas are different. We’re meant to be caretakers, meant to please our alphas. That the child isn’t mine doesn’t matter, I’ll adore her regardless. Just as I adore her mother.” 

The bell on the lift dings, and the operator opens the door. Polly goes to exit, but Peter doesn’t move. “Aren’t you coming?” 

“Will you tell me something first? I’d rather Grace not hear this.” Polly motions for the operator to close the door, and when it’s shut, Peter looks down at her with a familiar steely calm. Thomas has a similar look. “Did Grace provoke heat on Thomas?” 

“You’ve heard my testimony on the matter.” 

“I’ve no doubt you could lie to the parish priest at Sunday confession, should it suit you. So could that horse trainer you’ve enlisted. Tell me the truth - did she do it unwillingly to force a bond?" 

Polly closes her eyes. “Thomas says she did. Before you question his honesty, let me remind you that he can lie better than I, but the symptoms are unquestionable. Muscle aches from sudden onset of heat. Anemia from the subsequent onset of menses. Oversensitivity and nausea from the absence of the perceived bonded mate.” 

“And there was no possibility of his heat being mistimed?” 

“Have you ever in your life run the risk of going into heat three weeks early?” 

“No.” 

“Neither has Thomas. Runs like fucking clockwork. Which is in our testimony.” 

He runs a hand over his face. “I know. I just wanted to hear it without the audience, when you had nothing to lose or gain by telling me, other than gloating that my wife is a-” 

“She’s a manipulative little bitch, but don’t go throwing around any other words.” Peter looks at her, surprised. She takes a breath and curls her free hand into a fist. “Thomas maintains she could have had consent if she’d asked. That’s the end of it.” 

She doesn’t say anything to him after the lift doors open. 

*******

_Show me how you like it, he’d asked._

_She catches his hand in hers, pulling it to slide between her legs. She's wet, not as drenched as she would be this early in a rut, but slick enough under his fingers, and she guides his touch to press and rub against her clit. Her hips snap for it, and he pulls her to straddle his belly, leans her back to watch how she arches and sighs for his fingers._

_"Oh, good boy," she says, and he moans for the praise. "Good boy. I love that you'll take care of me like this, that even four hours deep into heat you can focus and do what you like. Such control."_

_"Want to do for you," he murmurs, tilting her hips up, sliding a finger slowly into her. Polly groans, head thrown back, and lets him work her open a little. "Fuck, you feel *gorgeous*, Pol. Can I make you come on my fingers? I want to."_

_"Yes, go on, let me have two, let me - *yes* - let me feel you. What do you think, sweetheart, for your next blackout period? What's going to feel good?"_

_"Anything you like," he says, twisting his fingers, and she tightens hard around them. Loves the feel of it, the sound of his babble. "God, Polly, just do what you like to me. I'll love it, I'll take it so sweet for you, I'm a fucking bitch like this."_

_She sits up, takes him deep and sudden, moaning against his mouth and kissing him desperately. "No shame in it, Thomas," she murmurs. Tangles her hand in his hair and pulls insistently as he fucks her with his fingers. "No shame at all, when you're in a heat. I just need to know what you want, what you like. I promise you're safe with me, anything in the world you want, I'll do."_

_She thinks she knows what he wants, but she wants to hear him beg for it._

_"It's going to be soon. I'll get you off before it happens, I promise I will, but you said you'd open me up for your mouth. That's what I want, for you to put your mouth to me, fuck me on your pretty fingers, Christ, I need it. I wish you were in rut, I'd take you so good, let you fuck me for hours."_

_It's omega fluff, they both know it. Omegas run off at the mouth during a heat, you have to gag them to shut them up, but Polly shivers, bears down on his fingers and comes like a shot. She kisses him during the comedown, slow roll of her hips, wetness covering his hand, makes him whimper for her teeth in his lower lip._

_She brushes her hand over his forehead, feels how he's starting pre-blackout, and eases him to lie on his side, curled around her. "Yes, sweetheart, yes. I'll taste how lovely you drip for me. You can take my fingers all you need. Oh, I wish I had a dildo with me, you'd look so pretty taking it."_

_"Bottom compartment on my army case,” he groans, hiding his face in the blankets. “Emergency cock some doc in Ypres gave me. I tried it last month, and it wasn't good enough, but I'll take it for you. You'd fuck me better than my own hand."_

_She’s only gone for five minutes, but five minutes for an omega in heat feels like four hours. She knows he’s shivering and feeling himself melt from the inside-out, hotter and shakier for it because it builds every time he comes. When she comes back into the room, she finds him on his belly, knees under himself, arse in the air._

_Presenting. For her. Christ, she could burst into flames at the sight._

_"Oh, look at you," she whispers, because it’s as if she's been given the best present on Christmas morning she could have imagined. The floor creaks as she makes her way to the bed, sets the dildo by his right arm, and runs a soothing, possessive hand over his back and arse. "Look at how good you are for me, sweetheart, you're a sight."_

_"Feel like a . . . god, a bloody fool . . . Christ, I want you so badly. I can't stand it, Polly, please."_

_"All right, love, all right. Spread a little, hmmm? Oh, yes, just like that. Bloody drenched, you are, I won't need much to open you up, hush, I know, I'll see to you now."_

_He whines, low in his throat, for her fingers tracing the rim of his hole. She feels him go blackout as she slides two fingers into him without any resistance, fucks him slow and smooth. She doesn't go right for his prostate, though she could, lulls him into a rhythm of fucking himself back on her fingers, her free hand wrapped around his waist and her mouth pressing kisses to his back._

_She doesn’t think he even realizes her mouth has trailed lower with every thrust until she removes her fingers and presses a slow, lingering kiss to his hole. He’s shaking nearly out of his skin, and she knows it’s because this is what he *wanted*, what he's thought about in the deepest parts of his brain._

_This is something alpha females only do to prove a point._

_She does it like she loves it, because she does._

_It’s one of her guiltiest pleasures, driving an omega out of their head, and it’s her Thomas groaning and whimpering. She hums against him as she works her tongue into him. He's so wet, he's running down his thighs, and she laughs against him, mouth breaking away from his arse to lick up the trails of slick near his cunt._

_"Going to mark you, sweetheart. Right, mmmm, here-" she bites softly to designate the spot, right on the thin skin of his upper thigh, where she’ll bond him. Waits to see if he protests, but he doesn’t, urges her on with cries and whimpers, and so she does it._

_He goes dead-still for it, cries out wordlessly for her as she bites down sharp and hard, breaking skin. He wails for it, and the sound makes Polly go hot-cold all over. She sucks little marks into his arse and thighs, murmuring into his skin._

_"Love you, baby, love you, you're so lovely like this, taste so good for me. I'll put my mouth back to your sweet little hole and then you'll come for me, won't you?"_

_He can't say anything but "please" and "yes", singsonging it over and over. Pushing back against her mouth, whimpering and crying for her tongue. She strokes at his hips as she licks at him, kissing wet and filthy into his arse. He's trembling hard enough to break apart, quick and convulsive, like he’s never been held on the edge like this._

_He can barely force out her name in warning before he starts to come. Soaks the bedclothes with it, and Polly strokes calmingly down his back, eases him to lie on his belly. He doesn’t seem to care that he's lying in the wet spot, purring as she pets him, shushes him, pushing a bottle of heat-tonic into his hand so he can drink. She takes a mouthful of whiskey, swishes it around her mouth, and spits it into the chamber pot. Downs another two swallows, and smiles at him, easing onto her side at the head of the bed._

_"All right?"_

_He's still getting his breath back, whining high at the back of his throat for the sheets rubbing against the bite mark on his thigh. "God, Polly," he sighs, "I don't deserve you. Not a bit."_

_“As if you don’t make me feel exactly the same,” she responds, stroking his hair out of his eyes._

*******

“Polly.” 

Grace is reclining on an overstuffed sofa, feet on a pillow, and she motions Peter to rub her swollen feet and ankles. Polly takes a seat opposite and waives away another omega waiter offering tea. 

“Grace.” 

“What do you want, that you came all the way over here to say?” Grace asks, closing her eyes as her husband strokes over her ankle. 

She finds that she wants to be honest with Grace, which is a fucking first. It’s damned sure never been this easy before, Polly thinks, and she suddenly feels awkward and fidgety. She twitches at her skirts, tucks her feet back, and needs a few breaths before she can answer. 

“That day in the Garrison, you told me I was afraid - that I knew one day, I’d lose Thomas, and that’s why I’ve kept him so close. I wanted to say; you were right.” 

Grace’s mouth opens in a tiny “o”, but she recovers nicely, good breeding does out, after all. She simply folds her hands over her belly and waits for Polly to finish. 

“He won’t have told you this - never speaks of it, not even with family, but you should know. His prick of a father used to treat those boys horribly, any awful rumor you’ve ever heard about an alpha head of a family of omega children and more. Ada was alpha, he let her alone, but the boys . . . omegas all, and what Arthur Shelby couldn’t abide was a worthless omega.” 

At Grace’s feet, Peter flinches, and Polly nearly apologizes, but she continues. 

“I know better than most how we can abuse power. It’s easy, isn’t it? Your omega says ‘anything’ and you take him at his word. An alpha high on power . . . we do bad things, don’t we?” 

Grace bites her lip, slowly nods, and Polly knows that’s as much of a confession as she’ll get. She’d provoked heat because she could, because she’d wanted Thomas and knew the only way she’d be sure of getting him is on a day when everyone was worried about Worcester. 

“So I’m very, very careful about letting an alpha near my boys. John found himself a good woman. Arthur - isn’t a problem. But Thomas has always been trouble, always been too headstrong and independent and all those things society tells him not to be.” 

“Say it,” Grace says, and Polly doesn’t have to ask what. She knows, and Polly knows she knows. “Tell me why you tried to kill me that day. If you tell me the truth, I’ll think about cutting you a deal.”

Her mouth is dry - she wishes she’d accepted the tea, to have something for her hands to do - and she swallows, looks over at the open window as she says “he’s mine. I bonded him. Fuck the bond laws, fuck the doctors who think it can’t be done. We did.” 

“And it keeps him safe.” 

“For now. In prison for illegal impregnation, where they’ll throw him in with two dozen alphas to teach him a lesson? I don’t think it will. The - the suicide statistics _alone_ -”

“ _Don’t._ ” And Grace looks scared, for the first time since Polly nearly slid a hatpin into her neck, hands clutching at her husband. “I wouldn’t-” 

Polly shakes her head. “But you did. You cried illegal impregnation and didn’t tell the judges that your husband’s infertile. All you fucking wanted was a child. You don’t know what they *do* to omegas that break the orientation laws.” 

There is a long silence that neither of them break. 

Finally, Grace looks up at Polly and shakes her head. “I’ll ring the magistrate in the morning. He won’t serve longer than three months, in an omega prison. I’ll retract parts of my testimony.” 

“And what do you want in return?” 

Peter is the one to speak up, this time, still on his knees rubbing his wife’s feet. His eyes are only for her, and Polly doesn’t, in the end, hate him for what he asks. 

“Let the child be mine. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I don’t want her to know anything about her conception, or her biological father.” 

As much as it breaks her heart, Polly says yes. 

*******

The house is quiet when she returns, though there’s a single candle burning in her own room, where Thomas is curled up in bed. 

“May I come in?” she asks, and gets a stare from unmistakably red-rimmed eyes, even in the candlelight. 

“It’s your room, why are you asking? Not very alpha of you, Pol.” 

The door clicks shut behind her, and her eyes adjust to the dimness. He’s curled up in her bed, drawers riding low on his hips, and while her hormones spike and her mouth waters, she stays where she is.

“Because you’re frightened, and I didn’t see it. I’m sorry. I don’t want you think I don’t care about your well-being, Thomas.” 

“Where did you go?" 

“To see Grace.” He curls his hands into fists, and she holds up her hands, palms open. “Hush, don’t worry, there wasn’t any bloodshed. Wasn’t even that much arguing. I just wanted to lay everything to rest between us.” 

An eyebrow. “Lay everything to rest how?” 

“I told her about you and I. Black Star Day. I honestly think she already knew, she’d said as much in the Garrison, but I was too angry to realize it.” 

He’s trembling finely, barest of motions, and he startles when she touches his hand. She doesn’t think he even noticed her moving. He shifts over to let her sit down, and curls up with his head in her lap, breathing in her scent and relaxing despite himself. 

“You told her?” he asks in a small voice, and she strokes his hair. “What if she-?” 

“She won’t tell anyone. It’s part of the deal.” Tommy picks his head up, and he’s still trembling, but his eyes have brightened. Trust it to be business, with him. “She’ll ring the magistrate to get your sentence reduced, admit she may be mis-remembering if you consented to the bonding, and recommend May’s arrangement be re-considered.”

“What do we have to give up?” 

“We? So you’re not telling me to fuck off entirely?” 

He smiles, reaches out to wrap a hand around her knee. Strokes his thumb over her skirt. “Wouldn’t be here if I were, Pol. Love you too much.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart. And I want you to know I tried to get her to compromise on allowing you to see the child, but she wouldn’t have it, and neither would her husband. No contact whatsoever. That little girl grows up with Peter Walker for a father. I even think he’ll be a good one, for the little it’s worth.” 

“And May?”, he asks, in a small, stunned voice.

Polly shakes her head. “Too early to tell. She may decide to pursue the bond, when you’re released. Or she may cut her losses.” 

Tommy is far too quiet. 

"You carried Sally and Michael," he finally says, and it's such a non-sequitur that she's thrown for a moment. Nods as he flicks his eyes up at her, and he flushes again. "Grace is carrying - she's pregnant. She wanted to get pregnant. I . . . I wanted . . ." 

She can't imagine what it is he's so frightened of saying, what he can't get out. Many alpha females choose to carry children, it's hardly unheard-of in these days. It's not like hundreds of years ago when female alphas thought pregnancy was only for omegas . . . 

_Oh._

"Baby," she whispers, stroking his hair and tugging him up to lie beside her. "Is that what's wrong? You wanted to get pregnant?"

He goes crimson again, curls himself into her embrace and whimpers. "I can't, Polly, I can't want that. Thomas Shelby can't be fucking barefoot and pregnant." 

Closes her eyes, forces her heart not to break, because he's right. He's barely acceptable as a businessman, let alone a gangster, and that hinges on him appearing strong and untouchable and more beta-like, if not alpha-like. No stereotypical omega traits, save for the sole concession of not-wearing a tie. Black clothing, hat, accent colors in blues and greys, not reds or yellows, clipped-short hair. Strong manner, a charm that said that he was interesting and different and wouldn't swoon at the whiff of alpha pheremones. 

All of that goes away if he gets pregnant. 

Never mind that omegas are born with a parental instinct. They can sublimate it - as her boys have with each other, with their younger siblings - but it never disappears entirely. Omegas want to have children, and most of them find contributing sperm or ova fulfilling enough by itself. But it's hardly unknown for an omega to desperately want to be pregnant; all you have to do is look at Mary for that. Five children she'd borne Arthur Shelby, and the last one had killed her. It's a very dangerous thing to want, for Thomas Shelby. 

"I'm sorry," she breathes, and he starts to sob, awful little hitch in his voice as he clings to her. "Baby, I am. I’m so sorry. I didn't know you'd wanted that so badly." 

"She was glowing. It’s the third month, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She - she told me something at the hearing today while you were talking to May. About the baby. She knows it's omega." 

And Polly's heart stops, because she remembers pregnancy. Remembers having her first child, tiny little Sally, and everyone being disappointed because Sally was an omega. Oh, useful enough, they would say, covering it up. Sally would be a good little omega for her mum, help around the house and grow up to bear strong children one day. Remembers how different it was when she was carrying Michael - oh, such a strong alpha boy, going to be just like his mum. 

Polly takes his face in her hands, brushing tears from his cheeks. "You wanted to carry her even more, didn't you?" she asks gently. "A little girl growing inside you. One just like you, who you could bear and teach to be as strong as you are."

His eyes are red-rimmed, and his mouth twists as he nods. 

"I should be carrying her," he says, voice cracking. "I could do it, I know I could. Look at Mum. Look at John. Five apiece. Even Ada carried Karl. She'd be safe with me-" 

“You won’t be able to see her,” Polly says, has to get the words out past the lump in her throat for the picture he paints. Tears spill down his cheeks, and she bites back a sob of her own. “You have to know that. We got the jail time reduced and the charge dropped, but you won’t see her. Grace and Peter are moving back to Poughkeepsie, and if you seek them out, the charges will be brought again.”

He shivers in her arms, and clutches her tighter. “All right. But you promise me something, Polly - _promise_ you won’t leave me. I can do it all, endure every fucking thing that prison and the goddamn world throw at me, but not if I don’t have you. Please don’t make me lose you as well as my child.” 

She kisses him, soft and sweet, smudges the teartracks from his eyes. 

“I don’t deserve you, Thomas, but I promise.” 


End file.
